Page 8 of A Class Act

‘So, Marlow?’ I asked.

‘I grew up there.’

‘But you don’t live there any more?’

‘No, no, it would take me far too long to commute every day into London.’

‘And it’s no place for young hipsters on their way up?’

He laughed at that. ‘You’re right. Once I’m ready to settle down, I might make my way back there.’ He gave me such an intense look, I was almost on the point of saying: ‘I do.I’llsettle down with you; have the 2.5 kids, the dog, the pony and the orangery off the kitchen.’ ‘Today, it won’t take an hour.’ He was speaking again but, submerged as I was in a lovely dream of hosting fabulous suppers for his barrister colleagues in our beautiful five-bedroomed (all en suite) house in Bucks, I didn’t quite catch all he was saying. All a bit daft anyway, as I can’t cook unless it’s cottage cheese and a bag of the old rocket. Would that suffice for kitchen sups for eight? Jess, a superb cook, keeps telling me that producing a fabulous meal’s not exactly rocket salad, but I would disagree with that sentiment.

‘Sorry, you were saying?’

‘Once we get onto the M40 it’ll be less than an hour’s drive. I thought we could have a picnic on the river?’ He looked a little unsure. ‘Unless you’d rather a restaurant? There’s Heston’s place over at Bray. I did wonder about that…’

‘What?The Fat Duck?’ I stared at Fabian. Even I, connoisseur of baked beans and cheese on toast, and utterlyuninformed about posh restaurants – apart from Graphite – had heard of Heston Blumenthal. ‘It must be booked up years ahead.’

‘Dad’s mate,’ he said, slightly embarrassed. ‘He’d probably fit us in somewhere. Having said that, there’s Boris…’

‘Boris?’ Oh, for heaven’s sake, please don’t say his dad was mates with the ex-prime minister.

‘The dog.’

‘You’ve called a new puppy Boris?’ I stared across at Fabian again.

‘After Boris Becker. My mother spends a lot of her time, when she’s not working, playing tennis. Becker was her idol when she was a teen.’

‘Even though he’s totally fallen from grace? Tax evasion? Prison?’ I wasn’t impressed.

‘Mum was a top London judge at one point. She came out of retirement to help the team defending him at his trial last year.’

‘Right.’

I sat back in my seat as the Porsche hit the fast lane on the M40 and Fabian concentrated on the road ahead. I turned slightly, taking in the dark features of this man who was whisking me off into a world so alien to my own. What the hell was I getting into?

4

‘I’ll have to pick up Boris,’ Fabian said smiling, once we’d driven through miles of incredibly gorgeous countryside on the way out to Marlow. I’ve always considered the beautiful village of Beddingfield, where I’d grown up in West Yorkshire, stunning, and the scenery and sheer majesty of North Yorkshire, particularly around the Dales, and even round the bleak Pennines, unsurpassable, but as we passed through picture-box villages and expensive-looking towns with upmarket bars and restaurants, I could see why commuters would yearn to break out of London to live here. ‘You OK with dogs?’ Fabian asked, when I didn’t reply.

‘Depends what it is,’ I said. ‘If it’s a great big pit bull or a horrible yappy little lapdog, then probably not. I didn’t grow up with dogs. Mum’s house is surrounded by fields and amazing countryside but she’s never been keen on having one. Particularly as we have Roger.’

‘Roger? A cat?’

‘A rabbit,’ I said. ‘He’s a house rabbit. He’d probably see off any dog that dared to venture onto his territory. He’sparticularly territorial about the sofa – we have to wrestle with him to get the best view of the TV.’

‘I’m sure Boris will pass muster.’ He grinned, slowing down as, a mile or so out of the riverside town of Marlow itself, we approached a long country drive. After passing through an electric gate, we drove along a tree-lined avenue planted richly on either side with herbaceous borders, mature trees and topiary. Fabian slowed with a crunch onto a gravel driveway in front of probably the most heavenly house I’d ever seen.

‘Is this all yours?’ I asked faintly as Fabian cut the engine.

‘Well, my parents’.’ Fabian smiled. ‘And my grandparents’ before that. Been in the family donkey’s years. I grew up here. Right, come on, I’ll just get Boris and his lead and the picnic.’ I followed Fabian as he bounded up a flight of honey-coloured stone steps, pressed a few buttons on the alarm and walked through a magnificent reception hall, a pillared archway leading to the main, cream-carpeted staircase. While the house must have been designed and built with grandeur in mind, the rooms weren’t stuffy, but instead portrayed generations of family life. I walked behind Fabian into a spacious kitchen, which my sister Jess, with her love of cooking, would have sold her soul to get her hands on. A huge six-door navy Aga obviously hadn’t been thought sufficient because to one side of it was a bank of stainless-steel ovens, steam oven, microwaves and coffee maker that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Costa. Hundreds of cookery books, as well as myriad gardening tomes, overflowed from a bank of bookshelves on one wall. As I gazed round in wonder, Fabian moved across the kitchen, opening what I assumed to be a utility room.

‘Oh!’ I jumped back in surprise as a blond bundle of energy flung itself upon me, knocking me backwards onto a kitchen chair.

‘Meet Boris.’ Fabian grinned.

‘Hell, he’s big.’ I laughed, both the dog and I enjoying the attention. ‘I thought you said he was a puppy.’ Big lion’s feet, out of all proportion to his slender legs, paddled furiously across the floor back to Fabian. ‘What the hell is he?’

‘Goldendoodle,’ Fabian replied, wrestling the dog to the floor where he lay supine as Fabian cleverly avoided puppy teeth while rubbing at the dog’s pink speckled tummy.

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